Chapter 132
Evelyn's POV
Julian turned away, dismissing me.
"I'll be in the observation room if you need me. Try not to take too long. The FBI wants statements from both of you."
He walked away before I could respond. His footsteps silent on the polished floor.
Leaving me standing alone outside Adrian's room with my heart in my throat and no idea what I was going to say.
I took a breath. Another. Forced my hands to stop shaking.
Then I pushed open the door.
Adrian was sitting up in bed. His torso was wrapped in bandages. A nasty bruise bloomed along his jaw. Someone had cleaned the blood from his face, but his hair was still disheveled, falling across his forehead. He looked younger. More vulnerable.
His blue eyes tracked my entrance with laser focus. The relief that flooded his expression made my chest ache.
"Evelyn." My name came out rough, strained. "Thank God. I was—they wouldn't tell me if you were—"
"I'm fine," I said quickly, crossing to his bedside. "I'm okay. Julian got to you in time. You're safe now."
He reached for my hand. His fingers closed around mine with desperate strength.
"They used my phone to call you. I heard them. Heard what they demanded." His grip tightened, almost painful. "You didn't pay them, did you? Please tell me you didn't—"
"I didn't have time," I said. Technically true. "Julian figured out where you were before the deadline. He—"
I swallowed hard.
"He saved you."
Something complicated crossed Adrian's face. Gratitude. Guilt. Something that looked almost like resignation.
"I should have known he'd be the one you'd call. Should have known you'd trust him over—" He stopped. Shook his head. "I'm sorry. That's not fair. You did the right thing. Russell has resources I don't. Connections that could make this happen fast."
The formal use of Julian's last name felt like a wall going up between us.
And part of me wanted to let him. Wanted to accept this graceful retreat and pretend everything could go back to the way it had been.
But I couldn't.
Not after everything. Not when he'd been tortured because of his association with me. Not when he deserved the truth even if it destroyed whatever fragile connection still existed between us.
"Adrian," I said carefully. "About Isabella—"
"I know." He released my hand, leaning back against the pillows. He winced, suggesting his ribs hurt more than he was letting on. "She called me this morning. Before—before all this happened. Told me she was breaking the engagement. That she couldn't marry someone who was in love with someone else."
The words hung in the air. Heavy with implication and unspoken truth.
Because of course Isabella had seen it. Had recognized what I'd been trying to deny—that Adrian still loved me. That he'd never stopped. That every careful gesture and controlled expression had been hiding feelings that hadn't diminished in five years.
"Adrian—"
"Don't." He held up a hand, stopping me. "Please. Just—let me say this. I need to say this."
He took a breath. His blue eyes met mine with painful honesty.
"I've been lying to myself for months. Telling myself I was doing the right thing by agreeing to marry Isabella. That it was what the family needed, what the company needed. That I could learn to love her the way she deserved."
His voice cracked slightly.
"But I couldn't. Because every time I looked at her, I saw you. Every time she touched me, I wished it was your hand. Every fucking night I lay awake thinking about you—"
He stopped. Jaw clenching.
"I'm sorry," I said. The words felt inadequate but necessary. "Adrian, I never meant to—"
"To what?" He laughed. Bitter and self-deprecating. "To move on? To find someone who could give you what you needed? Evelyn, you have nothing to apologize for."
He paused.
"I'm the one who failed you. Five years ago, when my family wanted to send you away, I should have fought for you. Should have told them all to go to hell and chosen you over their expectations. But I didn't. I let them send you to Russia. Let them separate us because I was too afraid of what it would mean to defy them."
The guilt in his voice was palpable. Years of self-recrimination condensed into a few brutal sentences.
Part of me wanted to comfort him. To tell him it wasn't his fault. That we'd both been young and overwhelmed.
But the truth was more complicated.
Because if he had fought for me—if he'd chosen me over his family—I would have stayed. Would have never gone to Vorkuta. Would have never become Wraith. Would have never learned to kill, to survive, to be something more than just a victim.
And I would have never met Julian.
The thought crystallized with brutal clarity.
I realized I couldn't regret the path that had led me here. Couldn't wish away the years of pain and training and transformation. Because they'd made me into someone who could stand on her own. Someone who didn't need to be saved.
Someone who could choose to let someone in not because she was desperate for protection, but because she wanted to.
"You didn't fail me," I said quietly. "We were both trapped in an impossible situation. And if I'm being honest—"
I took a breath.
"If you had fought for me back then, I don't think it would have worked. I wasn't ready. I was still too broken, too dependent on the idea of being rescued. I needed those five years. Needed to become someone who could stand on her own before I could be with anyone."
Adrian's expression shifted. Pain and understanding warred across his features.
"And now? Are you ready now?"